


In Which Sherlock Visits His Own Grave

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sad times, Sherlock Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a small stab of something (grief? regret? I'm not one for labeling emotions so much as dismissing them immediately) in my chest as I consider the possible length of my absence. I will miss him. There is no reluctance on my part to admit this; like London, my favorite aubergine-coloured shirt, or the skull that sits in my now-empty flat on Baker Street, John is a comfort to me. I'm fond of him; perhaps I even love him. The only words I regret from my farewell speech are the words "Goodbye, John".<br/>----</p><p>Sherlock says his good-byes.<br/>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock Visits His Own Grave

**Author's Note:**

> Britpicked by the incredibly patient verymoderate. Any remaining mistakes/liberties/wild inaccuracies are my own.

_Sherlock:_

The headstone is elegant, stately. It has an understated sort of beauty that bespeaks wealth and quiet power. It reeks of Mycroft. I picture him picking it out, his disgusting jowls held firm in sombre mourning, and I can't hold back a sneer. Mycroft. If he weren't my brother, he'd be my greatest adversary. Even so…

I trail my finger over the cool, dark stone. Fleetingly I wonder if there's an accompanying coffin below the firm earth, and just as quickly I dismiss the question. I wasn't at my own funeral, whatever Lestrade has said in jest ("Probably attend your own wake just to see who's actually mourning you," that ridiculous accent), but I know that Mycroft would have arranged it carefully. I'm sure the funeral director is bemused by the empty, expensive coffin that lies under this patch of ground. I'm equally sure he's been paid handsomely for his quiet acceptance of the matter.

There are flowers, dead now, sitting at the base of the headstone. It's clear that the petunias are from Molly, the roses (near black in wilted death) from my brother, and the calla lilies from Mrs. Hudson- who is the only member of this sorry trio that actually believes me dead. There's also a wreath, hideous and garish, that has tipped over in its little base and lies forlornly askew. I suspect that it was presented as a gift "from the Yard" but was actually procured by Lestrade, and of his own solitary volition. Evidence of John's grief is conspicuously absent; however, I witnessed him moments ago speaking to the headstone and looking quite bereft, so I don't take offense.

I find I'm intensely curious about John's speech. What does one say to a dead man? The distance was too great for lip-reading, and the angle was insufficient for it at any rate. He had spoken softly; his voice didn't carry. What quiet words did he share with my empty coffin? I wish (belatedly, which makes it worthless) that I had bugged the gaudy little glass vase Molly had left there. But then, I hadn't expected anyone to divulge their secrets to my supposed corpse.

Now, that's a treat; I smile ruefully. Even in the midst of my tragic death, John manages to surprise me. There aren't many people who can claim such ability, even at the best of times. There is a small stab of something (grief? regret? I'm not one for labelling emotions so much as dismissing them immediately) in my chest as I consider the possible length of my absence. I will miss him. There is no reluctance on my part to admit this; like London, my favourite aubergine-coloured shirt, or the skull that sits in my now-empty flat on Baker Street, John is a comfort to me. I'm fond of him; perhaps I even love him. The only words I regret from my farewell speech are the words "Goodbye, John".

My phone beeps. Mycroft, I know, even without checking. Who else would text a dead man? My time is up. My good-byes to myself must be cut short. Goodbye, handsome headstone. Goodbye, hollow earth. Goodbye, wilting flowers and revolting wreath.

Goodbye, John.


End file.
